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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24717667">Algorithm Completed</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAsexualofSpades/pseuds/TheAsexualofSpades'>TheAsexualofSpades</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Quarantine Drabbles [82]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anti-Android Language (Detroit: Become Human), Anti-Android Sentiments (Detroit: Become Human), Brotherly Love, Captain Fowler puts up with so much shit, Flashbacks, Fluff, Found Family, Gavin Reed Being an Asshole, Gen, Good Parent Hank Anderson, Protective Hank Anderson, Protective Upgraded Connor | RK900, RK900 is named Nines, all the rk series are brothers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 01:00:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,080</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24717667</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAsexualofSpades/pseuds/TheAsexualofSpades</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The RK900 is not accustomed to thinking of the protocols it experiences as emotions. He has yet to encounter a situation where they originate unprompted, thus he cannot think of them as such. He stays late after working hours at the DPD, trying to figure it out. </p><p>Then Connor comes back to the station after a call goes badly.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Connor &amp; Upgraded Connor | RK900, Hank Anderson &amp; Connor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Quarantine Drabbles [82]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677655</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>156</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Algorithm Completed</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>soft bois are my jam and there's nothing like a mom-friend override.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Fandom: DBH</p><p>Prompt: “Who did this to you?”</p>
<hr/><p>Nines is working on the algorithm for his newfound deviancy. It is difficult to acclimate to these new protocols — he insists on calling them protocols even after Connor’s urgings and Lieutenant Anderson’s insisting that they are ‘emotions.’ He understands; there is a small amount of the RK900’s memory from the simulations prior to its initial activation, and there are errors that cannot be accounted for with his coding. As sophisticated as it is, even his did not account for deviancy.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Click.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>          Scanning…</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>          Light detected from the main office room.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>           Conclusion: Connor is back.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Nines closes the window and walks towards the conference room entrance. He stops when he reaches the door.</p><p> </p><p>Connor is sitting in front of his monitor. He opens his mouth to greet him and welcome him back but he stops.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>          Scanning…</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>          [ ] There is a tension in his shoulders</b>
</p><p>
  <b>           [ ]His head is bowed and</b>
</p><p>
  <b>           [ ]His hands are shaking.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>           Perhaps the call was more emotionally draining than he let on earlier?</b>
</p><p> </p><p>The RK800 had been remarkably stoic, perhaps the facade of 'alright' having finally broken after exhaustion settled in.</p><p> </p><p>Nines’ LED cycles yellow once. He has never seen Connor with anything other than the little cracks in his mask, always smiling, always alright. What does he look like when he is broken?</p><p> </p><p>He crosses. Placing a finger beneath his chin, aiming to tilt it upwards when Connor startles, almost jerking his head away. A protocol he has never seen before makes a comforting sound in his vocal processor. Connor shakes in the chair, eyes widening in fear. He pulls away. And Nines cannot let him move away because then he will not get to comfort him.</p><p> </p><p>He holds Connor’s chin in a surprisingly gentle grip and cocks his head to the side. “You are upset,” he observes, “why?”</p><p> </p><p>Connor shakes his head and tries to pull away. He doesn’t let him. “The rate of your thirium pump is elevated, and you are crying. Your LED is red. You are clearly not alright, why?”</p><p> </p><p>“It-it doesn’t m-matter,” he stammers. His voice is not clear enough to speak fluently.</p><p> </p><p>“Why does it not matter?”</p><p> </p><p>“I-it’s n-nothing, p-promise,” he stutters again, still trying to pull away. His stress level is still rising. Perhaps he is afraid? Of him?</p><p> </p><p>“Would you like me to call for the Lieutenant?” He keeps a hold of Connor’s chin but lets him shake his head.</p><p> </p><p>“That won’t be e-easier.”</p><p> </p><p>Connor’s throat works against his palm and his hands ball into fists in his lap.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>          Conclusion: this position feels like a restraint, something that is adding to the RK800’s stress levels.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>He ends up cupping his hand to support Connor’s head as opposed to forcing him to look up. “Then will you please tell me what is wrong?”</p><p> </p><p>Connor’s stress levels are slowly decreasing. Perhaps he should try to be softer. He was not designed for this; it is true his vocal processor has the capabilities to be soothing, but the rest of his physicality does not. He was not designed as the RK800 was. But he can learn.</p><p> </p><p>He crouches and rests his other hand on Connor’s elbow, stroking his neck. “Please…will you tell me what is wrong? I am not used to seeing you like this.”</p><p> </p><p>He’s still crying, but something vaguely resembling a smile appears. “N-never let it be s-said that-that the RK series w-wasn’t designed f-for interog-gation.”</p><p> </p><p>Nines does not reply. Connor takes a deep breath. It stutters. Nines wipes away the tear on his neck.</p><p> </p><p>“I-it’s not a b-big deal. S-someone j-just…just y-yelled at me. I’m just be-being stupid.”</p><p> </p><p>There is a strange blush on Connor’s cheeks and he is growing warm. Perhaps he is embarrassed? Why? Surely it is acceptable to cry when one is upset?</p><p> </p><p>A loud sob forces his attention back to Connor. One of his hands is clapped over his mouth in a futile attempt to stifle his cries. He hunches over, shaking. His eyes are closed.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>           Scanning…</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>           Sweater located.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Nines retrieves the oversized, faded gray hoodie from its place near the lockers. Crossing back, he reaches down to carefully tug Connor’s tie loose. He pauses when Connor startles so hard he shakes the files on his desk.</p><p> </p><p>“My apologies,” he murmurs, “I understand my footsteps are very quiet. I do not mean to startle you.”</p><p> </p><p>He crouches to finish helping Connor take off his uniform jacket and pull his arms through the hoodie. Connor doesn’t fight him, he just continues to cry. This time, Nines sees the protocol pop up on his HUD. Standing, he presses Connor against his chest, regulating his body temperature to increase Connor’s. The protocol works; he rubs his cheek against him, curling into his embrace. The protocol continues to move his arms, stroking Connor’s head and shoulders. His vocal processors continue to make those soft, comforting noises. Connor slots neatly against him as if he were a new component. He searches for the right word.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>           Cuddle: to hold close in one's arms as a way of showing love or affection. Also a prolonged and affectionate hug.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>He cuddles Connor until his stress levels decrease sufficiently and he begins to cuddle him back. He understands why this protocol is so effective for humans; Connor’s arms hold him tightly without being a restraint and the pulse of his thirium pump is a reassuring rhythm. When his HUD alerts him it is safe to ask again, he applies gentle pressure to Connor’s chin to lock their gazes.</p><p> </p><p>“Who did this to you?”</p><p> </p><p>Something in his expression must come off as angry because Connor is stammering to try and quell it. “It doesn’t matter, they just yelled at me, you don’t have to do anything—”</p><p> </p><p>His LED cycles yellow. “Your stress levels are not within acceptable parameters even after I have comforted you, your voice is still shaking, your LED is — “</p><p> </p><p>“Okay, okay,” Connor cuts him off, trying to burrow back into his chest, “so I’m still not okay, that doesn’t mean <em>you </em>have to get angry.”</p><p> </p><p>He lets Connor break his grip. “Will you at least tell me what they said?”</p><p> </p><p>Connor mumbles into him. He pulls away and crouches, cupping his face in his hands and stroking. “A little louder, please?”</p><p> </p><p>He sniffles. “It’s nothing I haven’t heard before. S-someone was talking about how androids have caused more problems than they solved and that we s-should all be d-destroyed because we aren’t good for anything—”</p><p> </p><p>His stress levels are rising again. He stands and cuddles him again. Instead of the noises, the protocol presents dialogue options.</p><p> </p><p>“Shh, shh, it’s alright, I’m not angry with you. Breathe, just breathe, it’s alright. You’re safe.”</p><p> </p><p>It is effective. Connor calms much quicker. His LED cycles yellow. Who has yelled at Connor? And why have they chosen to say that androids have caused more problems than they have solved? And why would they insist Connor is not good for anything? Perhaps they are new.</p><p> </p><p>“Perhaps we should compile a series of examples,” Nines muses, “surely they must be new and will not have enough references to accurately judge you.”</p><p> </p><p>Connor shakes his head. His hair rustles against his coat. “They’ve been here long before you joined. They know more about me than you. They were alive before androids existed. Their judgment is backed by more references than yours.”</p><p> </p><p>Nines’ LED cycles red, once, twice, then back to yellow. His grip on Connor tightens. “Then perhaps it is I who must be shown examples.”</p><p> </p><p>He knows Connor hears him when he tenses in his arms. He begins to shake again. His stress levels rise. He lets Connor go and steps back. “Show me.”</p><p> </p><p>He reaches for the keys and his fingers tremble so severely it takes him three tries to access the database. Clicking through the sections, he scrolls <em>past </em>his folder and opens another. He covers Connor’s hand and moves it back to the section titled ‘RK800 Logs 1-7285.’ Nines holds him in place and stands so Conner’s head rests against him. “Show me,” he repeats.</p><p> </p><p>“B-but this isn’t the references they’ve gone off of, it’s going to be different, it’s not going to be the same types of things. Some of these are a different version of me, so I won’t be reacting the same way and that might — “</p><p> </p><p>“Show. Me.” He interrupts Connor’s tirade with a gentle squeeze to his hand.</p><p> </p><p>Connor’s finger clicks.</p><p> </p><p>There is a new window. An RK800 is writhing on the floor, thirium staining its jacket, bubbling out of its throat.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Next.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>There are three different androids standing in front of the viewer. The camera paces up and down, the audio ringing out in the empty police station. There is a spray of bullets. Three humans die.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Next.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The Cyberlife guards lie in the elevator, blood covering the pristine white uniforms. The military precision of the crisp lines of the elevator is ruined as the RK800 stands, straightening its tie and ignoring the bodies littering the floor.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Next.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Twenty-eight stab wounds—“</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Next.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>An RK800 taunts Lieutenant Anderson holding it at gunpoint —</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Next.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“You know,” Lieutenant Anderson says as they pull up to the crime scene, “it really ain’t so bad having a real-time lab with us on the scene.”</p><p> </p><p>“Is that your way of saying you appreciate my presence while you work?”</p><p> </p><p>The remark is rewarded with a sideways glance. “Yeah. Guess it is.”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, I’m happy to help out in any way I can. It’s what I was designed for.”</p><p> </p><p>“Still don’t know why they made you look so goofy.”</p><p> </p><p>“My goofiness is part of my charm, Lieutenant.”</p><p> </p><p>Lieutenant Anderson snorts. “As long as you can still tell me where the trail leads, you can be as goofy as you want.”</p><p> </p><p>“Does that mean you aren’t bothered by how I take the samples?”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Fuck </em>no, that shit still grosses me out.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Next.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Come on,” Detective Reed scoffs as he turns the corner, “we don’t need any more plastic assholes ‘round here. Beat cops are bad enough, the hell they giving us detectives for?”</p><p> </p><p>“What, are you afraid one of ‘em’s gonna show you up?” Lieutenant Anderson barely spares the detective a glance. “Oh wait, one already has.”</p><p> </p><p>“Still don’t know why you pulled your fuckin’ gun on me,” Reed growls.</p><p> </p><p>“You damage Cyberlife property, that’s a huge fucking bill slapped down on your desk.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh please. We both know they have a shit ton of money to burn.” Reed narrows his eyes. “And that ain’t it. So spill.”</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe I like working with plastic better than you.”</p><p> </p><p>“You like working with everyone better than me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah well, when you can start being more efficient than the rest of the department put together, then come talk to me.”</p><p> </p><p><em>Next</em>.</p><p> </p><p>“So,” Captain Fowler says, leaning onto his hands, “you’ve been looking better recently.”</p><p> </p><p>Lieutenant Anderson snorts. “You didn’t call me in here to talk about my appearance.”</p><p> </p><p>“No. I called you in here because your record’s been off the charts.” Fowler pats the fat stack of files recently. “Haven’t seen progress like this from you in a long time. Plus, haven’t had to add any more notes to the novel that is your disciplinary record.”</p><p> </p><p>The lieutenant shrugs. “Got motivated.”</p><p> </p><p>“You did, Hank,” Fowler says, “and it’s showing. You can’t deny you’ve cleaned yourself up too.”</p><p> </p><p>Lieutenant Anderson absentmindedly runs a hand over his trimmed beard and shorter hair. “Yeah, and?”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s because of Connor, isn’t it?”</p><p> </p><p>“Partly. What’s it to you?”</p><p> </p><p>“You’ve basically adopted that android into your little family, haven’t you, Hank?”</p><p> </p><p>Lieutenant Anderson scowls. “The fuck are you talking about? No, I haven’t!”</p><p> </p><p>Fowler raises an eyebrow. “Really, what do you call the star at the center of a solar system?”</p><p> </p><p>“Sun?”</p><p> </p><p>Connor pokes his head around the door. “Yes, Lieutenant?”</p><p> </p><p>Fowler waves him off and turns back to Lieutenant Anderson, staring down his red face with a mock stern look. “Don’t lie to me again.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Next.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Hello,” Connor says, “what’s your name?”</p><p> </p><p>“My name is Nines.”</p><p> </p><p>“Nice to meet you, Nines.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>End slideshow.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>He closes the window.</p><p> </p><p>“They will have to come up with better insults,” he says quietly, “because those do not describe you at all.”</p><p> </p><p>He crouches to pull Connor into a cuddle. Connor throws his arms around him and holds tight. He’s warm, soft, and alive. He feels his heartbeat against his chest. He doesn’t even register the protocols being used, he simply experiences them.</p><p> </p><p>He smiles.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading! Come yell at me on tumblr while we're all in quarantine. </p><p>https://a-small-batch-of-dragons.tumblr.com/</p></blockquote></div></div>
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